


Where Is My Mind

by Moriatini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriatini/pseuds/Moriatini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after the fall Sherlock returns to find that John has committed suicide. Sherlock looking for answers stumbles upon John's diary. This diary chronicles John's last days; showcasing him slowly losing his mind. While reading, Sherlock discovers how little he knew about John and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time every writing a fan fiction, so constructive criticism is appreciated. I will try to update often!  
> Comments are appreciated!

          To anyone who ever met Sherlock and Watson, one small fact was true: Sherlock was the unsteady one. While he was a brilliant mind, it was hard for anyone to pinpoint his sanity. This is why it came to such a surprise when Detective Inspector Lestrade stumbled upon John Watson's lifeless and unsteady body. He was lying in his chair. Blood, the color of the fabrics faded maroon, soaking his jumper leaving him to look like a defeated lamb. It was evident that this was neither homicide nor accident. John had committed the unthinkable; he had committed suicide.

          The fall, otherwise known as the day the world’s only consulting criminal took his own life, had occurred just a few months before. Sherlock had been defeated by Moriarty. He was accused a fake and a murderer, his reputation spoiled. To Sherlock the only way out seemed to be to fake his own death. He went to the top of St. Bartholomew’s hospital, and never looked back; or so it was thought.

          On that day however, there was another tale to be told. What was believed to have been the downfall of a great man had actually been one of the greatest magic tricks even performed. Now it was the time for the veil to be removed, and the detective to return to his post.

          For nearly three months, Sherlock had been away in the deep underground of German Interpol. Since he had some time off; he determined it would be a right idea to remain productive. Productive he was, writing instructions on “Not Acting like a Blithering Idiot” (hoping to finally lessen the stupidity in the room), and mastering the painful process of non-visual deduction. This training was long and arduous, requiring utmost attention and precision. He like many others rely very nearly on sight, so to reprogram one’s brain would take work. Hence why Sherlock was away for some time (although not as long as would have taken any other fool to accomplish this feet.), but he was certain that John would not mind knowing he would be chaffed just to get to argue once more.

          Sherlock had arrived back in London with the help of his brother’s assistant Althea. She had arrived in Mycroft’s private jet, as was instructed by the older brother. The task was this: obtain Sherlock and return him to Baker Street at once (i.e. say anything and your position will be terminated immediately). The flight back was a quiet one (not that Sherlock cared for conversation). Whenever he look over at Althea’s direction he noticed that she would put her head down and proceeded to type away on her mobile. Assuming it was just a power play or nerves, he disregarded it as irrelevant.

          After a few too many hours the plane finally arrived onto the tarmac. From the small window by his side, Sherlock noticed that Mycroft’s vehicle awaited him. The long ride now seemed not long enough. Sherlock wondered if this was why Anthea was so quiet (knowing that Sherlock would not be pleased to see his pompous older half). Steeping out of the plane in precious timing with his brother exiting his car; they stepped nearer to one another.

          “Hello, Mycroft”, Sherlock said with obvious spite. Mycroft didn’t seem to acknowledge the hate in the air, he remained uncharacteristically quiet. “Did you miss me? I know it must have been hard getting by without me,” Sherlock continued in a way that said, let’s argue. Finally Mycroft spoke up.

          “As much as a would love to bicker like old times; I think it best if I get you over to see Lestrade. He is at Baker Street” he said in an oddly timid manner.

          “Oh, is that why you were acting so strange? There is a welcome home surprise waiting for me. Must have been why Anthea was so unnervingly quiet.” Now giggling to himself, “I bet John planned the whole thing. That man must have just been broken without me”. As soon as Sherlock spoke John’s name, the blood drained from Mycroft face.

          “Yes…, there is a surprise planned,” Mycroft wasn’t lying, but then again he wasn’t being completely truthful. “But if you don’t get in this car right now Sherlock Holmes I may very well lose my temper”. So into the car he got, but not without a moan of contempt first.

          On the ride to Baker Street, Sherlock thought about what awaited. He no doubt believed that John would be over the moon to see him, and Sherlock would be quite glad to see him as well. The past three months had actually been somewhat lonely for the man. Sherlock normally enjoyed the peace and quiet, thinking it improved his brain work. But when it came to John Watson, there couldn’t be enough talking, even if it was just unintelligent remarks from the doctor. And now after three months, the two best friends would be better than ever, solving crimes and drinking tea. Soon his daydreaming was cut short by Mycroft opening the door.

          Sherlock was thinking so hard he had barely even noticed they had arrived. The small flat had look just as he remembered, if not better. The white brick shone brightly in contrast to the thick black door. Golden letters marked the street address. While everything seemed perfect, something seemed off to the detective. The place looked desolate, if not haunted. As he walked inside it became more apparent. The foyer was sheeted in a thin dust. He thought that maybe Mrs. Hudson had just become lazy with the chores, but then he saw a piece of tape on the stairs that held a little piece of what used to be police line. He came to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson had finally been busted for illegal substances. As Sherlock pondered, Mycroft noticed that his appearance of joy had washed away.

          Assuming his brother discovered the truth he spoke “You don’t have to go up there if you don’t want to. I just thought…”

          “What do you mean I still have to see my surprise. I know you don’t like to see me happy, but I am sure you can let me be just this once”, Sherlock interrupted. He ascended the stairs anxious to see everyone, but when he entered the living the only one there was Lestrade sitting in John’s chair. The chair had been reupholstered since Sherlock had left. John must have spilt food on it; he always did get very animated when his shows were on, thought Sherlock. “Why hello there inspector, I see your wife has finally left you. Where is my surprise?”

          “What surprise?” he asked disregarding the fact that Sherlock deduced his divorce. “Mycroft didn’t tell you there was a surprise did he, because …”

          “Yes he did, but that is beside the point. Where is John…” Sherlock ignored the look of worry growing on Lestrade’s face.

          “Sherlock listen we need to talk”.

          Ignoring him still “I know that little bugger must miss me”.

          Lestrade’s voice grew in volume “Please Sherlock”.

          “So where is he, or are we going to go meet…”

         “SHERLOCK”, Lestrade rose from his chair; voice bubbling with rage. Sherlock was awestruck by what had just happened. His saw Lestrade’s eyes teaming with unholy anger, but just as soon as it had come the anger surrendered to sorrow, “John’s dead.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has not only lost it, but he has lost all chance of being a kind human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys but this chapter is really short. I don't know how I feel about it. I could really use some help. Let me know what you think (it would be very helpful). Also great big shout out to mycroftoffice, who quickly glanced at this chapter.

       

         “Sherlock…. Mate I’m so sorry. I know this must be hard” Sherlock stood there like a deer in head lights. His brain was processing fast, too fast. The thoughts came pouring in as though the flood gates had broken. At first he felt sadness, so strong and terrifying; he was positive that all the light had been stolen from the earth, and all that remained was the abyss that was his heart. Just as soon as the sadness had arrived; an anger flowed through his veins, consuming all joy in its path. He was angry not only at himself for letting this happen, but at John. How could he be so stupid as to take his own life? Does he know that everyone will have to continue their lives knowing that he will never be with us again? Then the sadness had returned. What had happened to John that made him want to end his own life? Where was I when he let go? Was there anything I could have done or said? Sherlock asked himself these questions and more. He wished he could shut off his brain, shut off his thinking, shut off the world.

          Greg was now crying at the immobile detective standing in front of him. “Sherlock…please…. Sherlock…. Can you hear me…. Oh God….I….I…..I’m so sorry”. At that moment something horrible clicked inside of Sherlock. The man that knew everything was now certain of only one thing: his best friend was dead. All the memories and good times died with him. No more late nights of Sherlock sitting in silence as John ate his meal. No more crime scene banter, or John telling Sherlock how “bloody brilliant” he was. No more John.

          At this sudden realization, Sherlock pulled himself together. He knew he couldn’t change a single thing, so he might as well live with it. There was no more John and Sherlock, only Sherlock. So he put on a mask, buried his feelings deep into his soul, and forgot about John. Forgot about the jumpers, and his dislike of sugar.. Forgot about the way he could sass his way out of anything. Forgot about every detail that was causing him so much pain at this very moment. He got up, dusted himself off, and broke the silence consuming the room.

          “So like I said before your wife has clearly left you. Tell me how these events transpired. Did she finally see you for the half wit inspector you truly are?” Lestrade who was just before crying on the ground, towered over Sherlock was now glaring into his eyes.

          “DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? I SAID YOUR BEST FRIEND HAS KILLED HIMSELF DUE TO YOUR ABSENCE, AND ALL YOU CAN TALK ABOUT IS MY DIVORCE!! LOW, EVEN FOR YOU!!” Lestrade’s face had gone red from rage, and his voice was beginning to crack from over exertion. “I hope you have a merry life Sherlock Holmes, and a happy eff you!” With that Lestrade headed for the door clear across the room.

           Sherlock was put aback by Lestrade’s strange outburst. “What do you want me to do tip toe around this flat like he is coming back? Because my extensive knowledge of science tells me that it is impossible. Or better yet, I could kill myself because my “Dear Watson” has killed himself”, Sherlock’s voice was drenched with sarcasm and bitterness. “I personally think it would it would be best if you and I both forgot about it and moved on”.

          This was all simply too much for Lestrade. He stepped back from the door and inched nearer to Sherlock’s tender face. Sherlock was just about to flash a cocky smile, when Lestrade pulled back his arm and drove his white knuckled fist into the hardest part of Sherlock’s nose. Iron scented blood dripped onto Sherlock’s porcelain skin. While the blast should have hurt, all Sherlock could feel was numbness. Lestrade sauntered to door, trying to keep his breathing even. Leaving the flat just as a tear escaped his eye not for John Watson but for Sherlock Holmes.

 

 


End file.
